


A garden.

by Nekoian



Series: Tales of Deva Victrix [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 20:50:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13061904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: Doing the best you can do is sometimes difficult, especially when the family gets involved.





	A garden.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/gifts), [losthitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/gifts).



> Credit to Moonlighten who started the Deva Victrix tale that I now slander. 
> 
> This fic was intended as a birthday gift for my Friend LostHitsu though I took ages to finish, sorry m'dear. It now serves as a Christmas gift to Moonlighten and LostHitsu and all who might enjoy my work. Wishing you a happy holiday season.

The image Llewellyn is looking at in the mirror is very different to what he’s used to; lacking his usual attire of his robe and his hair hanging loose around his shoulders, only thin twists of braid at each side of his face and tied together at the back of his head to help prevent it all falling over his eyes which is a project of futility but one he tries anyway because he’s as stubborn as his own hair and it helps him to avoid thinking about the heave of his chest.

He adjusts the sit of his tunic, tying and untying the belt multiple times until he has to stop himself and make do. Eventually, he tugs on his cloak and pins it shut. His fingers linger on the metal, formed to look like sprigs of bundled lavender at each end of the horseshoe shape, the pin resembling a length of twine holding it together. A gift from Dylan from some unknown area of the marketplace for their on-going courtship, which Dylan has taken to with enthusiasm, each gift and act he does is utterly painfully perfect.

Llewellyn feels a pang of remorse, as his own efforts seem underwhelming to himself even if Dylan accepts each gift and sentiment with outwardly glowing delight. Which, he reminds himself, is why he’s going out today and has vowed to ensure Dylan gets the very best gift Llewellyn can supply before their courtship has reached its conclusion for good or ill. He adjusts his hair one last time, takes a deep breath and upon exhale waits until his image reappears from behind the fog of his own breath then he slips on his shoes; pausing to drain the last dregs of tea from his mug, which is pleasingly cold, helping to soothe the mild burn of his throat.

\--

Llewellyn reaches the palace after a brisk walk, the sweat causing the wool around his neck to start chafing and itching. His forehead has started to flush hot and cold in uncomfortable waves, warmed by his excursions only to be chilled by a rogue breeze that cuts right through his clothing and chills his fingers and toes. He thinks that the warm hall and the decent clothing and food might have spoiled him, as he doesn’t recall feeling so noticeably cold in the past, even in the bleakest of winters.

The grounds of the palace are awash with the same hive-like activity that it always is, an energy that flows just out of sight but buzzes like the many tiny bees that work away their hours among the plants of Dylan’s little garden.

After pulling his cloak tighter around himself Llewellyn makes his way to the garden, pausing only to explain himself to a suspicious guardsman who stomps off for places unknown with a face like a month old custard, then returning and motioning for Llewellyn to get inside the garden before he changes his mind.

Llewellyn complies.

The garden is in a state of mild disrepair, the cold weather stripping many of the plants of their colour and foliage, people work with shovels and wheelbarrows full of plants with more pleasing colours and foliage. Llewellyn pauses to let a woman in overalls and thick black boots go past, a wheelbarrow full of brown wilting stalks and various piles of rocks and soil, he has to hop smartly aside to avoid getting his feet crushed by the barrows creaking wheel.

“You wanted to see me?” Arthur approaches slowly, a rag held in one hand that he’s using to smear dirt over his face instead of cleaning it as he doubtlessly intends. Arthur always looks suspicious, and today is no different, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, I did. It’s wonderful to see you, Art.”

“Arthur.”

“Yes, of course.’ Llewellyn steps closer, trying his best to smile; it feels awkward and stiff when facing Arthurs steely expression.

“If this is about the end of courting meal, I’ll tell you what I told Dylan, that--”

“It’s not about that,” Llewellyn assures, watching as Arthur’s expression of stubborn pride lapses into disappointment, “I wanted your help. You see, I want Dylan to feel at home in the hall when he stays, if he stays, and I thought perhaps.”

A look of horror bristles the edges of Arthur’s expression, making his whole body shudder. Perhaps it’s due to the cold, but Llewellyn rather doubts it. He looks set to turn away and ruin Llewellyn’s plans without so much as a listen.

“I want to make Dylan a garden!” Llewellyn curls his fingers into his cloak for warmth, his voice seeming to strike Arthurs back, making him turn, his interest seems piqued. “The garden at the hall is fine, but I thought you could fill it with medicinal plants and Michael has already given me a list of things he uses.” His chilled fingers dip deep into a pocket, crumpling at the paper as he grips it. He presses it into Arthur’s unwilling hand. “I’m willing to pay you, as much as you want. Please, Arthur?”

Arthurs eyes sink to the paper, rolling quickly over the list, “as much as I want?”

“Yes, anything I can afford.”

Arthur folds the paper and slips it into his pocket, “may I ask why you’re doing this?”

The question startles Llewellyn more than he expected, maybe because the answer isn’t something he’s truly considered. His silence breeds suspicion on Arthur, making the lines around his mouth and brows begin to curl.

“Dylan deserves a place of his own in the hall.” Llewellyn admits, feeling a strange guilt bubble afresh, “Michael is helping me convert the basement into a lab and he can have the garden and it’ll be all his.”

“He has the shop.” Arthur's voice hitches painfully, as though wounded.

“I know,” Llewellyn has to swallow a lump in his throat, “that we might never live together permanently, but at least when he visits he’ll have something that isn’t mine.”

“I’ll think about it,” Arthur gnaws on his lip, “if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.” He’s turned away and gone before Llewellyn can bid him a farewell.

He couldn’t bring himself to admit that what he really wants, is to have Dylan all to himself in the hall. His gift suddenly seems deeply selfish and he regrets asking for it but he turns and exits the garden, hoping to warm his hands while attending his work with the prince.

\--

The Prince takes Llewellyn into one of his many lounges instead of his usual office, perhaps tempted by the promise of a roasting fire and a glass of wine, which holds his attention a great deal better than Llewellyn’s carefully written notes ever could.

Prince Francis sits in the comfiest chair in the room and rests his feet up near the hearth while Alasdair is handed the burgundy file Llewellyn delivers on the regular.

Llewellyn doesn’t think his Highness ever actually reads it.

“Take a seat, please.” The Prince motions to the plush green seat beside him, though Llewellyn resists silently as best he can, it becomes clear that further discussion will not resume until he does so.

He rests himself on the edge of the cushion and raises his hands towards the fireplace, letting the warmth of the fire ripple across his skin.

He declines a glass of wine and Alasdair offers him one –by jabbing Llewellyn with it as politely as possible- then Alasdair sits himself down on the final chair and begins to drink it himself.

The file has been left aside. Forgotten.

“It’s much too cold for politics.” The Prince reveals at last when he’s suitably comfortable. Llewellyn can only nod and hum an agreement. Politics isn’t where his heart is either. “You’re terribly quiet.”

“Am I?”

The Prince lets out a long dreamy sigh, “La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel.” He clears his throat and offers Llewellyn a knowing smile, like some elderly relative, “You must be thinking about Dylan, you’re engaged how long now?”

“A few months.” Llewellyn’s hands slip into his lap and crawl into each other, knotting so tight that he thinks he hears a crack.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“No, I was just thinking about something.” The Prince's expression demands Llewellyn continue, though Llewellyn can’t imagine his woes –romantic or otherwise- can be very entertaining. “I was talking to Arthur is all, I think he might be upset with me, and maybe he’s right to be?” He sighs, glad to have said it, “I really don’t know.”

“Is Arthur still mad about the meal, thing?” Alasdair tuts and drains his glass, “I told him he should keep his nose out of it.”

“No, it wasn’t tha—” Llewellyn shakes his head, his fingers relaxing and his eyes wandering in Alasdair’s direction. He looks oddly morose, “He mentioned it, have he and Dylan had a falling out?’

“Not exactly, just Art being Art.” Alasdair smacks the delicate glass down on a side table and snorts his derision, he locks eyes with the Prince as he explains, “See, Arthur, my brother and Richard, _his_  brother don’t get along. Richard wants the meal of two families to happen at his pub because he has more room than we do at the apothecary. Arthur hates the idea of setting foot in the place. Now he’s being a big baby about it.”

The Prince nods thoughtfully, “How terrible,” He makes it sound distinctly not-terrible, “The meal of two families being?”

“The meal between the families of an engaged couple to celebrate the joining of both into one big happy unit, thing.” Alasdair shrugs, “An excuse to eat a lot and get shit faced drunk as far as I can tell.”

“You’re a true romantic.”

“Tah.”

“Perhaps what your families need is neutral ground. Somewhere where neither Arthur nor Richard will feel…is threatened the word?” Alasdair shrugs again and The Prince shrugs back, “would that ease your worries, Llewellyn?” No time to answer is supplied, “I knew it would! You should have the meal here, in the palace.”

‘Where I can attend.’ His face says, even if the words remain silent.

“You’re not serious.” Alasdair laughs, “Our lot and his lot, in the palace sharing homemade mashed potato and half cooked pork pies?”

“I don’t see why not. My job as Prince regent is to ease these kinds of tensions. Besides, my staff and I can cater.”

“The families cook the stuff themselves, Francis, Dylan told me about it.” Alasdair looks at his hands with great pain and sadness, “at _length_.”

“We can work out the details at some other point in time. My interest is in helping Llewellyn feel better.” He lies through his shiny white teeth, “We’ll talk about it over tea. Alasdair, come with me, I’ll need your help carrying things.”

They both exit as swiftly as they usually do when the prince has something in mind he doesn’t want Llewellyn to hear.

From where he sits Llewellyn can just about see out into the gardens, though he can’t pick out Arthurs form from the many scurrying creatures below. His stomach begins to slowly turn until the knot that had formed there becomes a small acidic cramp.

Why had nobody told him there was such a fuss about the meal?

He rests his face in his hands, still a little cold, and lets out a pained moan. Being engaged is more work than he expected.

**Author's Note:**

> La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel - A quote from Victor Hugo, it may be butchered, I don't know French.


End file.
